“Can we see them?”
“Of course.”
After stopping at a local market to buy hard-boiled eggs, meat in soy sauce, candied hawthorn berries on skewers, and warm orange sodas, Chi-Wen directed Lili to the center of town. They left the motorcycle on Dongbei Jie Road and walked down a narrow alley to Zhuozheng Yuan, the oldest and most lavish of Suzhou’s gardens.
“It’s gorgeous,” Lili acknowledged.
“Every garden was conceived as a microcosm of the universe,” Chi-Wen explained as they meandered through the grounds. “The rocks represent the earth’s skeleton, the water, its veins.”
He pointed out the flowers and trees. “Each one is a symbol. The lotus epitomizes purity because it grows out of mud, but remains undefiled; the pine, an evergreen, is a metaphor for constant friends; the peony is an emblem of love and a sign of spring; the magnolia represents feminine sweetness and beauty.” He walked ahead of Lili, so she didn’t see the blush spread across his cheek.
“And the pebbles?” Lili asked as they entered the small, intimate Loquat Garden. The geometric patio pavings were all patiently hand-laid, each floor pattern contained different colors and textures in glazed tiles and rounded black-and-white pebbles.
“Their shapes and textures capture the timelessness and the ch’i or energy of nature. They embody yang, the masculine side, and when they’re placed beside the female yin of water, such as this,” he said, indicating the pool skirting the Fragrant Islet, “together they are most harmonious.”
Lili turned to look at Chi-Wen. The wariness and strain of the past few days had been replaced by a softening around his mouth, a glow in his eyes. It was an amazing transformation — as if talking about this beautiful, fragrant garden filled him with inner peace, relaxing his features. “There is a wonderful sense of solitude here.”
They were standing on a little bridge arching over the artificial pond as a pair of Mandarin ducks glided past side by side.
“It’s as if they were a couple,” Lili commented.
“Oh, but they are.” Chi-Wen explained that Mandarin ducks were a unique species who chose only one mate and remained devoted for life.
“Is that true?”
“Yes, of course,” he said seriously, then smiled, “but I’ve heard that if you take them to America, they ask for a divorce within a few months.”
This was the first real joke Lili had heard from Chi-Wen and she laughed more to commemorate his breakthrough, than appreciation of his humor.
“What do you call that?” she asked, pointing to a tree with fan-shaped leaves and yellow fruit boughs.
“A ginkgo tree. They say that one’s over four hundred years old.”
“A perfect spot for a picnic.”
Sitting in the shade of the ancient tree, they shared lunch and conversation, talking about everything from medicine to literature. Aware of Lili’s background in American literature and genetics, Chi-Wen marveled at her font of knowledge. So young to know so much. Suddenly he felt more bitter than ever that the Cultural Revolution had interrupted his education. “What made you study genetics?” he asked.
“I wanted to understand myself. The gene is the ultimate unit by which all the characteristics we inherit are passed on to future generations,” Lili explained, then cocked her head, struck by a self-revelation. “By understanding that, I guess I thought I could understand why I was different.”
Different. There she had said it. “After all the years of growing up in San Francisco’s Chinatown, after all the efforts to blend in, to escape my roots, my own genetics still made me different.” She reflected for a moment. “I guesss that’s partially why I also majored in American literature.”
“To escape being different?”
Lili pondered. Another form of escape? “Probably,” she admitted with a self-effacing laugh. “But I think it was my way to correct the injustices in the world, to become the hero who rights wrongs. If only in my fantasies.”
“Yes,” Chi-Wen said. “Things are always easier in books.”
For a long time they sat, not talking, absorbed in their own thoughts, their silence punctuated by singing cicadas.
Finally, Lili turned to Chi-Wen. “I’m ready for my first lesson.”
“What?”
“A deal’s a deal. I taught you to ride a motorcycle. Now you must teach me tai chi. You said it’s not just exercise, but a way of life?”
“That’s right. Behind every tai chi movement is the Taoist philosophy of balancing the two opposite forces, yin and yang, inside the body.”
He pulled a pen and paper from his pocket and drew a circle. “It begins with a circle. There is no start or finish to a circle, only completeness and total existence is circular. It is the oneness of a cosmos that’s always changing.”
Across the middle of the circle he drew an S. “Though opposites in nature, there’s a harmonious relationship between them. Yin and yang mean completion in the same sense that a coin must have two sides, that there can be no good without bad, no left without right, no heaven without earth.” Chi-Wen shaded in one side of the S. “And no black without white.”
“I always thought tai chi was a form of martial arts.”
“Yes and no,” he replied. “In your Western world, exercise concentrates on outer movement and the development of the physical body only. The purpose of movement in tai chi is to transfer the ch’i or intrinsic energy to the shen or spirit and to use inner rather than outer force. With tai chi, the separation between mind, body, and spirit gradually disappears and the student attains oneness with the universe.”
Lili was skeptical.
“Showing is better than telling,” Chi-Wen said, reaching for her hand and helping her to her feet. “Always remember the circle. Every movement in tai chi is circular and out of each motion comes its opposite. You sink before you stretch, pull back before reaching out, shift left to swing right.”
Chi-Wen began to demonstrate. “No matter how complicated your program, always begin standing erect, facing north. Keep your head, neck and torso in one line perpendicular to the earth, but relax.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Close your eyes and just concentrate on your breathing, as if each breath is silk drawn slowly from a cocoon.”
Lili let her breath slow down and gradually deepen.
“Empty your mind. The result will be a look of serenity, representing the state of wu chi or absolute nothingness.”
Lili copied Chi-Wen’s position.
“Very good. The starting stage of tai chi is like a seed planted in spring. Something inside this seed changes to a sprout. In much the same way practicing tai chi begins in the very first moment of change, both physically and mentally. The transition from outer stillness to readiness for movement — going from wu chi to tai chi.”
Chi-Wen stood behind Lili and placed his hands firmly on her hips. “Once the stage of tai chi begins, you are ready to practice tai chi chuan. Your heels should touch lightly as you sink slightly at the knee then separate your feet, leading with the left foot. Yes. Good.”
He spoke slowly and softly. “Above all, the movements come from letting go. From the initial stillness comes motion, slow, monotonous, rising and falling with a natural rhythm like the ocean tides.”
His voice became hypnotic. “Imagine air filling your whole body, all the way to your fingertips. With each inhalation, feel the air float your hands and arms out from your body. These small movements are tai chi. They grow from inside out. They are effortless.”
Lili enjoyed the firm guidance of his hands.
“Straighten up gradually. Very gradually. Your feet should be shoulder-width apart. Distribute your weight evenly. Do this slowly, testing carefully the weight on each foot. In China we say ‘the root of the body is in the feet’ to evoke the image of the earth. In order for the spirit of vitality or shen to ascend to the top of the head, it must be held as if suspended by a string from the sky.”
; Chi-Wen stopped to observe Lili’s stance. “You’re doing well. Let your breathing become even deeper, slower, softer, until your ch’i sinks to the tan t’ien.” He indicated a point a few fingers just below her navel.
“The idea is that humanity lives between earth and sky. After you’ve practiced tai chi for years, you’ll gradually feel that every movement is the movement of the universe. You and the universe will become one.”
Despite her doubts, Lili found herself gradually relaxing.
“We learn from our bodies. Change is motion, tai chi is motion, change in motion. Moving and changing from up to down, from hard to soft, from in to out.”
Lili experienced a sense of lightness, as if she were a feather, floating in complete peace.
“Starting from the center, follow the outgoing energy until it folds back on itself. Always return to the center of the circle.”
She didn’t realize how long she remained in that position before Chi-Wen’s voice gently informed her that it was time to go.
“So soon?”
“It’s almost five o’clock.”
“You’re kidding.” Lili checked her watch, shocked that nearly an hour had passed.
Chi-Wen understood. “Tai chi brings a new awareness of time and space. As you proceed, you gradually appreciate the continuum of past, present, and future. We are all on the same path, but at different points along the way.”
“Remarkable,” Lili exclaimed. “You may make a believer out of me yet.”
“You’re on your way to becoming a true Chinese.” Chi-Wen smiled, then on impulse, blurted, “I’m invited for dinner at my aunt’s house. Would you like to come?”
“I’d be imposing.”
“Please,” he insisted.
“All right,” Lili agreed. “But let me stop by the hotel first and change.”
Xi’an, China
That same afternoon, thousands of students gathered at Xincheng Square in front of the Shaanxi provincial government building to mourn deposed Party leader Hu Yaobang, whose death had sparked the democracy movement. Shouting anti-government slogans, some clashed with police while attempting to force their way into the government compound. They set fire to a janitor’s quarters, a reception room, several cars, buses, and trucks near the gate.
The riots continued until evening as the crowd pushed over the western wall of the compound, ransacking provincial court and procurators’ offices. Police arrested eighteen looters and suppressed the violence, but not before more than thirty students and one hundred policemen had been injured. A twenty-four-hour curfew was imposed.
Suzhou, China
Lili wanted to make a good impression on Chi-Wen’s aunt. Rummaging through her suitcase, she found a beige skirt and matching sleeveless blouse that would give her a conservative look, yet make it hard for Chi-Wen not to notice.
She dressed carefully, then stepped in front of the mirror for a final audit. With her self-critical eye she searched beyond the physical in her reflection. Something to explain the imperceptible change. She was becoming less a stranger here, no longer just a visitor. The thought made her smile. Impulsively, she slipped off her blouse and exchanged it for a red silk one she bought in Hong Kong. Red, she thought admiring her image, was the Chinese color of happiness.
She touched the jade locket hanging on her neck, running her fingers around the perimeter. A circle. What had Chi-Wen said? It begins with a circle.
Her mother’s words: . . . wear it always . . . so you will never forget . . . you are Chinese.
A circle. The continuum of past, present, and future.
You’re on your way to becoming a true Chinese.
She barely had time to button all the eyelets that came up to the Mandarin collar before there was a knock on the door. When she opened it, Chi-Wen’s eyes widened.
Changsha, China
7:00 p.m.
After public broadcasts of a memorial service for Hu Yaobang in May First Square, rioters smashed a car and a police box and plundered shops. Several hundred police arrived around midnight, making more than one hundred arrests, claiming most were hooligans with criminal records and none were students.
Suzhou, China
Two stone lions with chipped faces guarded the doorway of the old-style, low-story whitewashed plaster and wattle dwelling. Before the Cultural Revolution it probably belonged to a single family. Now more than a dozen households lived there, most with less than one hundred square feet of space per person.
Chi-Wen led Lili through the inner courtyard to a corner room hidden behind a large broken pot whose one tiny peony had just begun to bud. Contrasted with those flowering so freely in the public gardens, the lone bud seemed a melancholy representation of spring.
Chi-Wen didn’t bother to knock, but opened the door and ushered Lili inside a tiny room illuminated by a single dim lightbulb. Lili looked around: a table, a bed that doubled as a sofa, and an old kerosene stove. The only ornaments were a few posters taped on the cement wall and, in the far corner, a record player that looked to be vintage 1940.
Bending over the stove was a short, round-shouldered woman dressed in blue pants and a white blouse.
“Esteemed aunt.”
In the faint light, the woman’s face appeared worn and tired, her skin as wrinkled as crushed rice paper. Yet the moment she saw Chi-Wen it was transformed. A broad smile appeared on her lips, a sparkle in her black eyes as she ran over to greet them, throwing her arms around Chi-Wen. “Nephew! I’m so happy you’ve come!”
Chi-Wen spoke a few words in Mandarin before his aunt turned to Lili. “Forgive me, it’s just so long since I’ve seen the boy.” She extended her hand. “My name is Fan Zhou. Chi-Wen tells me you come from America.”
Chi-Wen had mentioned that his aunt had studied in the United States, so Lili was not surprised to hear English. However, unlike her nephew with his slightly British accent, Fan had a Midwest twang. “A pleasure to meet you,” Lili replied.
“Come,” Fan said, urging them to sit on the bed/sofa, then hurrying to retrieve a kettle of hot water from the stove.
While she poured chrysanthemum tea into china cups patterned with flying cranes, Chi-Wen questioned her gently. How was she feeling? What did she lack? Food? Tea? What could he get for her?
To his questions, the old woman waved her hand dismissively. “You have done enough for me.” But how was Chi-Wen, she wanted to know, studying him carefully. She clucked her tongue. “You look tired.” Setting a plate of dry tofu squares in front of him, she added, “and too thin.”
To Lili, this frail Chinese woman with her round face and kind eyes reminded her of her own mother and how much she missed her.
Huddled together on the bed/sofa, Lili answered Fan’s questions about family and work, but she was more interested in learning about Fan’s life. It took little prompting before the old woman retrieved a photograph album from underneath the bed and placed it on Lili’s lap. “So many years since I’ve looked at this,” she admitted shyly.
As Lili turned the pages, the history of Fan Zhou slowly unfolded in black and white. There were baby pictures: Chi-Wen’s father in 1920; Fan’s in 1927. Lili thought Fan looked far older than her sixty-two years. There were only a few of the two as youngsters with their parents before they stood posing for graduation photos.
“My father became wealthy owning and renting farmland,” Fan explained. “But he always placed a high value on education. When we finished high school, he sent us abroad. Chi-Wen’s father studied English at Oxford while I became a mathematician at the University of Michigan.”
Lili turned to a snapshot of Fan and a handsome, bespectacled young man in front of a clock tower. “Ann Arbor,” she said. “That’s where I met my husband, Joe.”
“Joe?” Lili asked.
“First generation Chinese-American. His parents ran a laundry in Lansing, Mich-igan. I think they named him Joe hoping the neighbors wouldn’t notice that he wasn’t one of them.”
Her
laugh was ambiguous, filled with the joy and pain of her memories. “We were both assistant professors in the math department in 1950, when I heard that Mao was inviting Chinese to return home. Many of my friends decided to go. Even my family pressured me.”
Her eyes misted. “They said I had become a ‘white Chinese’ — the greatest form of insult.”
Today they’d have called you banana, Lili thought, feeling a new connection with this frail old woman.
Fan stared at the faded picture of her husband and sighed. “Joe said I was crazy to go back and live under Communists, but I wouldn’t listen. I hadn’t learned the word patriotism, but I never really meant to stay in the United States. Being an intellectual is a privilege in China. I thought I owed my people something. Besides,” she said, looking directly at Lili, “I didn’t feel like an American. I always felt very much a Chinese.”
“When did you come back?” Lili was uncomfortable.
“In 1951, I accepted an invitation from Fudan University to teach.” She turned to her nephew. “Your father was already on the faculty and pulled strings to get me the position.”
“You lived with mother and father, didn’t you?” he probed. “You know, I’ve never heard the whole story.”
“Until you were born,” she confirmed, smiling at the chubby little boy in her album.
“And your husband?” Lili asked.
Fan looked away. “We were divorced.” The steadiness of her response belied the depth of sadness as she ran her finger over the old photo. “I received a letter about ten years ago stating Joe had died.”
She closed her eyes as if to enhance memories, then opened them again. “It wasn’t long before I discovered being patriotic wasn’t easy.”
“How so, aunt?”
“America followed me here, nephew. My Michigan education, my husband, my overseas connections made me suspect.”
There was a picture of Fan posing with a group of men and women in Mao jackets. “When I arrived in Shanghai, I was wined and dined by officials. But I was watched.”
Rabbit in the Moon Page 17